


Ghosts Among Us

by Retel



Category: Fear the Walking Dead (TV), The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV), The Walking Dead (Telltale Video Game), The Walking Dead (Video Games)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-06 20:08:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5429141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Retel/pseuds/Retel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forget yourself, so that you might live again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Winter is Coming

> _**"Old Man Winter** _
> 
> _Oh old Man Winter_
> 
> _**He ain't no sprinter!  
> ** _
> 
> _Ain't no sprinter!_
> 
> _**Old Man Winter is a comin' to town!  
> ** _
> 
> _Old Man Winter he's a huntin' us down!_
> 
> _**Get a blanket girl!  
> ** _
> 
> _Get a fire on, ma!_
> 
> **_Old Man Winter's angry at y'all!"_ **

 

The radio played out loudly, the only noise to be heard in the Ghost City. Byram's nose twitched, half agitated by the unlikelihood of power in an otherwise abandoned part of the city. Something was fishy, and despite his hunger, the Lone Huntsman didn't care for 'fishy.' He pulled his crossbow down around to his front, loading it with a bolt and resting it in either arm, ready to fire at a moment's notice. He kept on at a slow pace, his duster gently padding against his ankles with each step. The wind picked up, jostling his hair and coat and carrying the tunes from the radio further away. Up high, in the broken windows of what used to be businesses, Biters were shambling around, bumping into desks and pressing against whatever glass was still in tact. It was evident that a few had fallen to their death- or, they'd jumped and failed to land on their heads. Byram moved over to one, studied it for a moment, then smashed his heel into its forehead. The skull caved like brittle glass, and the brain splattered under the Lone Huntsman's boot. With the (minimal) threat eliminated, he crouched down and searched the Biter. It took a moment, but Byram soon produced an I.D. and a handbook... A journal, apparently.

Flipping through it, the Lone Huntsman came several entries, one of which stood out above the rest.

> _"James was bit. Don't know how, don't know when- he volunteered to scout out the lower levels for other survivors. Maybe one nipped at him and he didn't bother to mention it. Doesn't matter. Sarah went down in the middle of the night, I put my last bullet through her skull, bashed James's in with the gun. He got me in the process. My hand. My fuckin' hand... I had the notion to chop it off, but all we have for fighting is this empty gun and god damn table legs. No one's left to put me down, they all scattered in the chaos. Saw a few who made it down and out, somehow. Got away from the Dead. We'd been talking about making our way to that gun store five blocks over, then trying to secure one of those construction sites... No weather protection, but big fences to keep the Dead out..._
> 
> _What's it matter, though? It's over for me. No bullets, and I'm not going to turn. I refuse to turn... So this is goodbye. Some fuckin' use this journal was... Meant to be a history book. An Officer's Journal. Officer... Pathetic.  
> _
> 
> _Maybe it'll put me at ease to keep writing. But if I keep writing, I'll just be using it as an excuse to put off the inevitable. If anyone's reading this... Give up. You're walking into Hell."_
> 
> _Goodbye, and good fucking riddance,_
> 
> _Daniel_
> 
>  

Byram tucked the journal into one of the interior pockets of his duster, scraped the gray matter from his boot onto the sidewalk, and looked up towards the rooftops. Others from the man's group may have survived, and would be holed up near by. The Lone Huntsman shook his head; they'd most likely be dead, especially if they'd never gone back to check on Daniel. Dead or alive, though, there would be supplies wherever they'd gone to. Weapons, food, medicine... The new currency. A currency Byram had grown skilled at acquiring. He moved quickly and quietly, leveling his crossbow as he rounded corners, avoiding potential hiding spots as best he could. Only a handful of Biters plagued the streets of the Ghost City, and most of them were too starved to walk; odds are, Byram figured, the were all locked up inside buildings, the same as their living counterparts had been. "White collars," the Lone Huntsman spat. "Good to see where that wealth came in handy."

_"Ain't it, though?"_

Byram spun on his heel, pulling his crossbow's trigger as soon as he'd turned a 180. The mystery man was agile, and swatted the bow aside so that the bolt swiveled off into the distance. Byram moved back, but the man latched on to the bow and yanked forward, using the Lone Huntsman's momentum to shove him to the ground. "The hell is this?" Byram grunted. He struggled, managing to pull the Stranger down low enough to headbutt him. There was a satisfying _crunch_ as the Stranger's nose broke, and Byram took the opportunity to scramble to his feet. He swung his Crossbow around and brought it down on the Stranger's head, causing the man to fall to his knees. The Lone Huntsman kneed him in the skull, then unsheathed a combat knife. Byram crouched down and pressed the tip of the blade to the Stranger's throat.

"Who the _fuck_ do you think you are, Meat?"

"A _white collar,_ you sack of shit."

Byram scoffed, then smacked the flat of his knife's blade across the Stranger's face. "Try again."

"Fuck! I'm _George,_ okay? Christ! What the fuck are you doing in the Red Zone?"

"Red Zone?" Byram looked around, chuckled, then pressed the tip of his knife against George's throat. "Your Biters could barely nibble a fly. This ain't a red zone, kid."

"Anywhere with those _things_ is a Red Zone. Only safe place is the Industrial District. They all had fences, food, heavy tools and saws for fighting..."

"You've got survivors, then, eh? Fine." Byram grabbed George's shirt collar and pulled the man to his feet. "Just so happens you found yourself a mercenary. I'll take care of your Red Zones, you'll give me room and board for a few nights." The Lone Huntsman gave the man a shove. George stumbled forward, then tried to push a pair of blocky glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Y-y-you can't just-" Byram gave the man a shove again.

"You're fast, Meat, but you ain't tough. You're a runner, yeah? Not a fighter. Your folk need fighters, or them fences you spoke so highly of ain't likely to hold, and with Winter coming, you're gonna have survivors from miles around looking for food and shelter. So," the Lone Huntsman paused, slung his crossbow over his shoulders, sheathed his knife, and pulled a 1911 Revolver from an inner pocket of his coat. "Take me to your leaders."


	2. Day One

Byram reached into his coat, producing James's hand journal. He stared at it for a moment, then looked up at the Hard Hat, Jared. The Lone Huntsman tossed James's journal down, then crossed his arms and furrowed his brow. "Your boy died of his own accord; got bit, got abandoned, tried to take his own life, turned. To be frank, friend, I'm just shocked your crew is still kickin'. I had it in my head, y'know,  _I'll just go pick up what they died carrying._ Turns out y'all survived  _and_ thrived. Shocker, that."

Jared's nose twitched, his eyes shifting between the journal and Byram. He snatched the small leather-bound book from the table and shoved it into his coat pocket, then continued pacing the room. "You wander into my territory, beat and attempt to kill my man, and expect me to just... Let you go? No, worse. You expect me to give you work, a bed, and food. You think that's how  _any_ of this works?" The Hard Hat slammed his fist down, and stared the Lone Huntsman down.  _"I want you gone._ Take your weapons and  _get out."_

Byram chuckled, scratching at his goatee. "Now what if I have a group? I go and wander on back to them, bring 'em here, and put a bolt in your skull and a torch to your camp. Then what, huh?"

"We have walls, weapons, and supplies. You wouldn't get a foot in the door."

"Boy, my whole body is in the door  _right now._ And so far, I ain't seen a single gun on your boys. This place is a travesty just waitin' to happen." The Lone Huntsman leaned against the table, his palms pressing into its surface. "Give me a bed and food, and I'll clean out your streets and get you your guns. It ain't hard. Ain't many Biters around outside, and the ones that are are weak, frail, rotten. I'll teach your boys to handle 'em."

"I said _..._   _Get ou-"_

A guard burst into the room, a sledge hammer slung across his back. "Jared, sir! One of ours is in a scrap with an Office Rat. It's getting bloody." Jared growled, grabbed a lead pipe from a pile of several other heavy weapons, and followed after the guard.

"Stay  _put,"_ the Hard Hat called over his shoulder. 

Byram hesitated a moment, then followed.

* * *

 

Outside, the Lone Huntsman took note of just how massive the walls seemed. The wire and tapestry were the outermost layer, but on the inside, lumber and steel were stacked and nailed and hammered together, creating a sixteen foot barricade between the interior of the 'Industrial Zone' and the rest of Ghost City. There were four guard posts on each corner, and up inside of the unfinished tower was a sniper's nest. The four guards each wielded a single pistol, while the sniper wielded a rifle; these were the only guns the Industrial Survivors had, despite a moderate cache of ammunition. 

Along the outskirts of the Industrial's camp were various makeshift huts, containing beds and rudimentary trunks and shelves full of personal belongings. Closer to the center was a large tent, from which the smell of meat and soup drifted out of. There was another tent where a few elderly men and women and two young women in scrubs drifted in and out of. And, finally, at the center of the camp was a dome of steel and wood that contained the majority of the Industrial Camp's supplies; food, ammunition, medicine, books, building materials, and weapons in general. The tent they'd exited acted as a general control center. There were several more buildings and tents, but Byram had yet to conclude their purpose.

In front of the 'Kitchen,' a man in a dirty, sweat stained button down was waving a sharp staff back and forth. Two men in overalls slowly circled him; one held a mallet, the other a wrench. "Settle down, Tim. It's just a damned can of soup; there's no reason to steal. You get your rations, and that's all you need."

"I'm  _starving,_ you bastards! We all are! You give us bird sized portions! I  _owned_ you before this. Your company was in my pocket! You don't have the right-"

Jared swatted the man's staff to the ground with his pole, and the two guards restrained him before he could recover. Byram watched from a distance, and whistled. "None too shabby, but you'll want to be shed of that one. Grubby hands ain't good for much more than gettin' bit." 

The man- Tim- squirmed in their grasp. "Let. Me.  _Go!"_ Instead, they dragged him away.

Jared picked up the man's staff, examining it carefully. "He must've taken it from the stock pile. We try to reserve wood of any kind for building... That bastard," he grumbled. 

Byram moved up, his arms folded over his chest. "You ain't gonna last, man. Give me a bed and let me out on your next few runs. I'll weed out the weak for you."

"And what? Kill them? Let them all die? That's  _not_ our way. Everyone lives, no matter what." _  
_

Byram shrugged and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Say what you will, but you're running on luck. You need a real survivor; that's me."

Jared's jaw clenched, and he scratched at his nose. "Fine. You have three nights here. Come sunrise, you're going on a run with George, Reese, and their crew. If you do what you say you can do, you might just have a place to lay your head."

 


	3. Entry One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Entry from the journal of an ex-Alexandrian

 

 

> _I grabbed the Walker by its collar, pushed it down, and drove my knife through its cerebellum. I threw myself down onto my back, gripping the knife's hilt and pulling the lifeless corpse on top of me. I breathed, listened, and stared up into the sky as its rotting skin plagued my nostrils._
> 
> _Around me, above me, the shuffling drew closer. I watched as tattered trousers and rotting bodies shambled by, and I listened to their moans and growls and cries. A few looked down, but their curiosity was as transient as the nature of their eternal hunt. Hear a noise, follow the noise, even once they've forgotten what the noise is. They follow each other, even when they aren't aware that those which surround them are as dead as they are. The Walkers, my group called them. Biters, Geeks, Shamblers- I've found journals and eaves dropped on groups, all of which had different names for the creatures. Walkers seems... More direct. Honest. It's what they are. What they do. Walk, consume, then walk some more._
> 
> _I stayed the night like that. And the better part of the following day. Hundreds, if not thousands, of them... They just kept coming. Kept going. I hear sound in the distance. Gun fire, a horn wailing, something crashing. Only when a handful remained did I move. I shoved the corpse off of me, pulled my knife free, and I ran. When something got in my way, I drove my knife into the base of its skull, or fired a round between its eyes. Eventually I found a camp in the woods, all of them dead. I dealt with it. I found a poncho, like something out of a western, in one of their bags. Kept it. I found a machete. It's slung over my back now. I found a hat. I'm wearing it. A bow, slung over the other shoulder. And applesauce. It's been gone for a few days now. It was the best thing I'd eaten in years._
> 
> _After the camp, I kept walking. I remembered a story one of the members of my group told, about how she'd survived early on. So I found a Walker, and I cut off its arms, and I lopped off its jaw, and I wrapped a vine I'd cut from a tree around its neck. Other Walkers started avoiding me and I had a pack mule._
> 
> _I had the notion to go back, at first. Maybe Alexandria was still standing; maybe they'd survived the Herd. Call it instinct, call it a mother's intuition, or call it dumb, stupid luck, but I didn't. I kept walking._
> 
> _It wasn't until recently I noticed it. The radios... The battery powered ones, at least. They still play music. Someone, somewhere, is still broadcasting. And the signal is getting stronger._
> 
> _Somewhere, this whole time, these past few years, someone has been broadcasting music. And maybe, just maybe, they've been broadcasting something **more.** A chance.  **Hope.**_
> 
> _So that's where I'm going. The stronger the signal becomes, the closer I must be._
> 
> _Vivo, vivere, vixi, victum._


	4. Day Two

Reese sat atop a desk, his legs folded crisscross. He dug his fingers into the packaging of his pudding. Up ahead, the new guy- Hiram? Belview? Some shit like that, anyway- was sifting through corpses, looking for keys, apparently. George had climbed up to the top floor with Danny and Jason, then they'd worked their way back down, looking for Biters as they went. They hadn't found many, but they  _had_ found a few locked doors, one of which was some sort of medical supply closet. The Hiram guy was pissed that they hadn't found any guns, but George convinced him that medicine could be more important. A bargaining chip, for one, and it would help them get through winter.

"Y'all ain't gonna last through winter when a gang comes callin'. I saw it once, and I seen it a thousand other times; you think ya got somethin' good, then someone with better guns, better trained men, and worse morals comes an' takes it from ya. What good's your medicine then, Meat?" Then George went on about diplomacy, and the would-be Cowboy got fed up. "What do ya need me to do, then," he'd asked. And then George told him to look for keys, journals, I.D. cards- any scrap of information might help. Danny and Jason fanned out to other levels of the building, but Reese was tasked with keeping the Cowboy company. He hooked his fingers like a crane, scooped up some pudding, and slowly scraped it off with his teeth, savoring the flavor. 

"Hey boy," the Cowboy called back. "Come 'ere and look at this." 

Reese swallowed the gooey chocolate, swung his legs around, and let the momentum carry him off the desk. He caught a glimpse of himself in one of the windows, and stopped a moment to look it over. His hair had grown out, and the dye was fading, so it was a weird mix of black and sandy brown. His vest was worn and frayed, the chest covered in patches that depicted various bands and graffiti-esque images. He had a machete attached to his hip, and wore black jeans with brown boots. His jacket was a sturdy black fabric, with brass buttons lining the front. From head to toe, Reese was covered in grime and sweat, but he liked it that way. It was honest. What was the point in washing yourself off in a world that would just pile guts on top of you?

The twenty year old crouched down beside the Cowboy and tossed aside the plastic cup of pudding, having finished it off a moment before. He ran leaned forward, his gray eyes studying the ring of keys the Cowboy'd discovered...

"It's still kickin'," the man whispered. He pulled out his knife and ran it along the Biter's face, ever so gently. The starved thing let out a groan, its eyes creaking open and its head slowly turning to face them. "Which raises the question of whether your George is as competent as Hard Hat thinks he is."

Reese sat back for a moment, and then positioned himself so that he was nearly straddling the Biter. It tried to lean up, but the weight of the other dead bodies kept it down. The boy slowly unsheathed his machete and pressed it against the Biter's forehead. He looked at its bloody eyes for a moment before driving the blade home. Black blood oozed out, and Reese twisted his machete free. He wiped it on the inside of his vest before sheathing it again. "George is smart, and he's fast, and that's why we keep him. He's not a fighter, and he's not a survivor. But he keeps our supplies under check and makes sure we don't pass up anywhere we might find food or water or medicine. Someone like, say, Danny were in charge? We'd have died from the flu by now, if not starvation."

Byram mauled that over for a moment, then yanked the keys free from the corpse's belt. The duo lingered for a moment, watching the black blood bubble up from the Biter's skull.

"You ever heard of Valhalla, boy?"

Reese shrugged. "I read books, if that's what you mean. Heaven for Warriors, right?"

The Cowboy stood, paced the room, and stopped moving once he'd reached a window. He stared out over the city as he spoke.

"The Norse believed in an honorable death. They figured that if you die fighting, you get to go to Valhalla, a sort of... Afterlife for Heroes. My pa, and his pa, were both infantry in the U.S. Army. His pa died on D-Day, stormin' a beach overseas, gun in his hand and blood cakin' his clothes. My pa fought in Vietnam, but he died fightin' these... Things.

"My brother was in Desert Storm. Died for a cause he ain't believed in... He was the better boy. 'Byram, don't let what ma says get to ya. It ain't Muslims that are the problem, its people. People get a bit too much power, and it goes to their head. They stop seein' men and start seein' numbers. Don't be like me,' he'd say, 'because Pa's war wasn't like these new ones. These new ones... They're just politics.'" Byram hesitated for a moment, before turning to face Reese. "You get two options, in this new world. Ya fight, or ya run, but you're gonna die eventually. My family follows pagan beliefs, though I myself am a bit more... Agnostic. I like to think some place like Valhalla is real, though. That maybe this'll be worth it." Byram opened his mouth as if to continue speaking, before a scream reverberated through the building. The Cowboy's jaw set, and he swung his crossbow up into his arms and took off towards the stairs. 

Reese stared on wide eyed, before unsheathing his machete and charging after Byram. The two barreled down the stairs, meeting Danny and Jason part of the way down. The group burst onto the first floor, stumbling to a stop when they realized what was wrong.

From a big set of double doors, dozens of Biters were pouring out. George was clutching his arm and sprinting towards them, tears streaming down his face as he cried out. Jason grabbed George and pulled him into the stairwell, while Danny and Byram opened fire on the hoard. Bolts and bullets flew, and bodies dropped, but still more spilled forth. Reese hacked the head off one that got too close, and then the group retreated back up the stairs, slamming the door shut behind them.


	5. Broadcast One

> _Avoid the Turnpike; repeat, **avoid the Turnpike.** An aggressive group was spotted by Survivors living out of the West Virginia Turnpike's major rest stop. It is advised those who are ill equipped and must travel along the Turnpike,  **please** avoid roads at all costs. _
> 
> _One of our eagle eyed reporters heard tell that a massive force of Blighters has swarmed what may have once been a thriving settlement. Rumors spread quickly between those of us with radios, and I've heard tell that gunshots, screams, and even an explosion came out of the area. Blighter activity is expected to increase significantly for the next few months. Those of you with walls, don't leave them lightly. Those of you without... We at America's Remnants Radio urge you to find us, or one of our outlying safe houses. Follow the Towers. We do the rest._
> 
> * * *
> 
> _This just in, we've gotten confirmation from a small party of settlers calling themselves the Truckers that the Blighter activity north of Niagara Falls... Is minimal. Our Scientist friends proposed the idea that severe weather may hinder Blighter movements. More on this soon. And now, here's Joel McCreary with 'Old Man Winter.'_
> 
>  

>   
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> _Evening folks, I hope you enjoyed our Twelve-to-Five music showing. And now, it's time for the Fireside Chats. We have with us today a man who allegedly survived alongside several other men and women, until recently... Would you care to elaborate, Ken?_   
> 

> _**Yes, thank you, Arnold. I ah... We were down in Georgia, when it all started... Me and my boy... My wife... We'd found a farm, run by a man named Hershel. He took us in for a time, gave us food. Shelter. Until a man and his girl came along. Clementine and Lee Everret.**   
>  _

> _Tell us more about Hershel's farm, would you?_

> **_Right. You probably want to know about how he ran it, how it was still standin'... Well. It was luck and timing. The man lived out in the middle of nowhere, so he didn't get many Walkers-_ **

> _Walkers, of course, being your term for Blighters, correct?_

> **_Yeah._ **

> _'Walker' seems to be one of the more popular terms around. I wonder why that is?_

> **_Just kinda... Stuck. I guess you could contribute that to the Glenn kid. Pizza boy, hung around us after the Farm._ **

> _How did the farm fall?_

> **_Didn't... I uh... Hershel's son got bit, and he took it out on us. Kicked my family out, and Lee and Clem too._ **

> _This must have been early on, then._

> **_...Yeah._ **

> _Glenn... Do you know his last name?_

> **_Can't say I do._ **

> _Interesting... One of the more... Elusive? Infamous? Groups that we've heard about had a... Glenn, in it. And a Rick. They make quite the big stir down south._

> **_...Right. Ain't this my story?_ **

> _Of course, of course._

> **_We eventually made our way to Savannah. Between the Farm and the City, I lost my family. My son got... bit... My wife didn't handle it. In Savannah, we kept losing people. Ben, some college kid. He fell to his death and I... Well, I put him down. Lee got nipped. We took his arm off, but I don't know if it helped. Clem... Well, Clementine is the reason I'm here, I suppose. If you're out there, Clem, if you and Omead and Christa survived... Find me. I've got a settlement not so far from here. Go North._ **

> _Is that everything, then?_

> **_Yeah... Yeah it is._ **

> _Thank you, Kenny. And now for our Five-to-Eight music broadcast._


End file.
